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Let a Fool Hold His Tongue
'The Golden Dragon - ---- ::''The Golden Dragon isn't, as so many taverns are, a place of refuge. No, this place is meant as a place of socializing, a place of merry laughter and shared troubles, a vision of the companionship and mutual respect that makes life in Crown's Refuge even possible. ::''Finished in warm red wood, the Dragon is simply a long, wide room. Like most taverns, a bar dominates one wall - in this case, the rear one - with the establishment's stores stacked carefully behind whoever happens to be working the bar at any given moment. Two large fireplaces are built into the right-hand wall, both equipped to cook; identical emplacements that offer both warmth and a means to use that warmth to create savory delights, and a place to share tall tales and stories of lamentation and woe. ::''The tavern has no dark corners, and no square tables to be shoved in them. Instead, round tables fill the remaining space, slightly taller than your usual surfaces to meet the few Syladris that take advantage of the Dragon halfway, with enough space between them to give the illusion of privacy for those few that desire it. ---- There's a fair amount of noise in the tavern tonight as men who are finished working come to rest or tease their comrades. Perhaps the only person that really stands out is the girl sitting by herself in the corner. She has her hands clenched into fists and she seems to be eyeing the men warily. And ho! Yet another man walks into the tavern. Well, sort of man. He's a teenager, though in the later teens. Sandrim hums to himself as he walks in, moving around and searching for a free seat. Syra opens up one of her hands and eyes the criss-crossing welts setting into them. She uses a finger, wincing as she touches the reddened flesh before closing her hands again. She hasn't noticed Sandrim yet. Sandrim slows as he nears Syra's table, blinking as he looks over to her. "Why, hello. How did you hurt your hands like that?" Syra blinks up at him as he comes close and her face takes on a guarded expression, before she offers him a wan smile. "Ah.. um.. I-it's nothing," she notes. Her eyes flicker around the room, and, as she notes there aren't many free chairs left, she motions to the chair. "Please, sit down if you like. I'm.. not expecting company." "Welts on the hands are hardly nothing," Sandrim says with a light grin, taking that seat. "I'm Sandrim. You?" Syra bows her head politely, looking up at him under her eyelashes. "Syra.. and it was my fault. I handled the rope wrong." She motions quickly to the room. "Is it- Is it usually like this here?" she asks, sounding a bit worried. She folds her hands back up, hiding them under the table. Sandrim looks around. "Always noisy?" he asks. "Oh, depends on the time. Just wait until the hunter women come in, though. There's this one called Redwing - she likes to pick fights with some of the men." He grins broadly. "She's pretty fun, and they're never anything really bad. And rope. Rope can be a pain." Syra blinks at him, looking a bit incredulous, trying to absorb that idea. After a moment's deliberation, she carefully notes, "..I suppose it weren't like that where.." she pauses and bites her lower lip, shifting in her seat. "Well, I can't say as it were much different where I came from," she notes, her cheeks turning a light rose color. "You get a few rowdy folk everywhere," Sandrim says with a broad grin. "You're from Fastheld, then. So, what were you doing that you got yourself hurt with a rope?" Syra tucks her hands behind her, lowering her eyes. "I don't know as I should talk about that." She glances up at him with a bit of a frown. "I mean no offense, Sir." Sandrim raises an eyebrow. "First off," he says, "I'm no knight. Second of all, why not? I mean, what, you were off doing criminal acts with rope?" Syra shifts in her seat, shaking her head in response. "No.. and I'm sorry about the wrong address," she offers in a soft, polite tone. Her eyes widen, and she gives him a serious look. "Are you with the guard?" Syra 's tensed shoulders seem to relax, and she breathes a sigh of relief. She nods to him quietly. "I'll tell you on one condition," she says softly, her expression somber. Sandrim raises an eyebrow. "Okay," he says slowly. "Alright." Syra says, "Please.. Don't tell anyone else. My hands will heal soon, and I'd rather have it behind me." Syra nods, and rests her hands, clenched, on the table, as she leans forward. She pauses to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, letting out a soft sigh. "I stopped a merchant back in Light's hold- then he near drowned by the docks. Took a worker to pull 'im out." Sandrim blinks at Syra. "I don't know why you're so scared about that," he says. "Just sounds like an accident, is all, and nobody was truly hurt in the end." Syra nods, blushing a little again. "I know- but I'd rather be forgot." She glances around the tavern, and her eyes light up, making her appear a bit younger than she did with her somber expression. She offers a small but genuine smile to him. "Tell me.. ah, Sandrim?" she cringes a little. "Has anyone hereabouts heard of the surname Stubble?" "Well, it's certainly a strange one," Sandrim notes. "So, why don't you want to be remembered? You know, most people generally do want to be remembered for something or another." He looks at Syra, studying her thoughtfully. Syra drops her gaze down between her hands, not replying. She gives a little sniff with her nose, generally staying quiet for the moment. Sandrim sighs and shakes his head, grinning a bit. "Right, not to be asked," he says. "I'll try to remember that." Syra glances back up at him and shakes her head quickly. "Nae.. it's a'right. I could tell you a story, but it wouldn't be mine," she says with a lopsided smile. "I was just hopin'- that maybe I had a cousin hereabouts," she notes, casting her gaze down to the table again. She tries to hide it by offering him a smile as she levels her gaze at him, "But it's naught worth worryin' about. There's lovely groves hereabouts; I haven't seen such well tended trees anywhere." Sandrim grins. "Why, thank you for the compliment," he says. "Now, as for your cousin... I couldn't really say. I don't know any other Stubbles, and I couldn't say that you look quite like anyone I know." Syra leaves her mouth open in a little 'o' as she gazes at him. As soon as she catches herself, she shuts her jaw closed, a blush forming on her face. Despite herself, she offers a shy smile. "You're better at it then I am," she notes politely. Sandrim shrugs. "I had a lot of free time," he says. Syra says softly, "They're lovely." She rests her arms on the table, taking a bit more of a relaxed pose. "I am a Stubble," she notes in a prim sort of voice, "And I've bin' teased summat about it. But I was told my great grandpap' weren't.." she shifts in her seat. "He weren't prone to shavin, or he left shadows on his face. I think it were a cruel joke by a noble to give him that Surname." She smiles to herself. "But I suppose it could be worse. And no one could accuse me of bad-shavin'," she says with a nod. "I wouldn't check, anyways," Sandrim deadpans. "It just wouldn't be proper and all. Myself, I'm an Oakleaf who fell in autumn." He grins. "I'm not sure why we're called that, but I like the name enough to hold onto it." Syra grins a little at his contagious sense of humor. "Well, it's a nice name- and someday it might be all you have." Sandrim shivers. "I hope not," he says. "I'd be horribly cold, you know." Syra lets out a small laugh, and looks somewhat surprised. She smiles a bit shyly, folding her hands back under the table. "You could always wear an Oakleaf to preserve yer honor," she notes with a bit of a smile. Sandrim raises an eyebrow. "Oh dear," he says. "Honestly, I think I'd sooner walk around shamefully." Syra grins lightly at him. "Well, I 'spose we can hope neither come to pass," she notes teasingly. She glances towards the window thoughtfully, going quiet. Sandrim sighs. "True," he says. "The world shall have to live without. So, what's on your mind there?" Syra glances back to him, a smile playing on her lips again. "Just.. whether if I should travel back to Fastheld." She purses her lips, before continuing on her train of thought. "I never thought Crown's refuge would be so large- or beautiful- and.." She frowns, and removes her backpack, beginning to rummage through it. "I should return these to you," she mumbles to herself. Sandrim blinks, raising an eyebrow. "You stole something that fast?" he asks. "That's talent." Syra blushes a little and places a few packets of seeds on the table. "These are from your orchards," she says, keeping her eyes low. "I shouldn't have taken them. Sandrim raises an eyebrow. "No," he says. "Go ahead. If you can find a use for them, I don't mind." Syra glances up at him. "I would have asked permission if I'd known previously," she notes. "I couldn't buy apple seeds in Fastheld- they had none." She smiles faintly. "And I suppose if I can't find my cousin here.. I'll travel back to Fastheld in a few days." Sandrim tilts his head to the side. "So, who's your cousin? And take the apple seeds. Find a good place to plant 'em." Syra offers a smile to Sandrim, and places the seeds back in her bag. "Thank you- and, I don't know. I was merely following a rumor," she whispers. "However.. I am glad to have met you." Sandrim considers that, then nods. "Sticking around here for the night?" Syra nods her head. "Yes. I'll be here for a few days. Do you come around here.." she gestures at the tavern, "Often? And do you have family here?" Sandrim hmms. "No," he says, "no family here, but friends. I stop here from time to time, I guess." Syra nods her head. "It's good to have friends," she says neutrally. "Thank you for making me laugh- It's been a while. Perhaps I forgot how to." Sandrim grins as he stands. "No you didn't," he says. "You just haven't. Take care - look for a room in the Southern Cross, I'd suggest, to the north." Syra nods to him, offering him a quiet smile. "Thank you- I'll sit here a while longer." She offers him a polite wave. ---- ''Return to Season 7 (2008) Category:Logs